


Rivers and Roads

by EnthusiasticRambler



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Based on but possibly not limited to a dnd campaign, Proper tagging what's that never heard of her, Roadside Adventures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22848094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnthusiasticRambler/pseuds/EnthusiasticRambler
Summary: The tales of a tiefling and a thief, two words people love to gather her up under. To say it never affected her would be a stretch, but to say that she adapted would be an understatement. She’s come a long way from these streets, only to find herself right back where she started – with more to lose.Home, sweet home.Yeah, right. Everything she’s ever had, she’s lost in Duvarin.In hindsight, there was really no reason for this time to be different.
Kudos: 1





	1. Creature of Habit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kallista is my character from Roadside, a 5e homebrew. She’s… kind of like an onion, if you think about it. But, um, a pretty messy one. Mostly because she’s been cursed with a terrible brain-to-mouth filter, aka me.  
> She has clever ideas. I ruin them. We’re a great duo.
> 
> Gonna eventually be a collection of stories, varying in length (and possibly quality). Also, chronological order? Not a thing. The summary does not take place in the beginning, or in the end, or even in the present, just somewhere along the road ;)
> 
> Let's start with a short one, shall we?

The humming of a lullaby is barely audible on the wind. 

_Her lullaby._

She lets it carry. Softly, like a string of fabric, it shifts. Lifts, on the night’s breeze, caressing leaves of grass on its way to trees. She dips it in the moonlight, and then reels it back in, leaves it in her chest to knot itself and furl. Lets it vibrate there, in the beating of her heart. In a different voice.

Try as she might to keep her watchful eyes on the night, she can’t help but split her attention.

How long has it been since she travelled in company?

When her watch is over she wakes the dwarf with a cheerful smile and an exaggerated yawn, then picks up her bedroll. They don't linger in conversation. She discretely feels out for the transparent wall and then takes a spot with her back against it, her knees brought to her chest, right side up. The dexterous way she curls into herself is less like a child and more like an animal, huddling for warmth, covering its vitals in case danger might approach. Compressing itself, for camouflage. Normally she'd pull the cloak all the way over herself, blending into the grass, but for tonight vision will be more important than stealth. Her left arm pillows her head, and she internally goes over the movement for a millionth time – the single twist that would allow her to rise in a second, less, if the need should arise. Her right hand reaches down to her belt, silently dislodging the sheathed dagger, and she hides it between the ground and her ribs with the hilt pressed to her heartbeat. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do. For now. 

Finally, she tucks her toes into the base of her devil's tail, curling it up her side where it presses over the curve of her waist. The tip moves to cover what little skin is exposed at her throat. _Just in case._

Getting it slit would hurt worse than hell, but she’d rather lose it than her life, if the choice had to be made.

She considers her company, just one last time, delaying the inevitable. Her mind wades in the sea of questions from that one day alone. Words and images swim around her limbs like fish, some in groups, some bigger than others. Some more vibrant. _Skeletal wings that shine like sliver in the moonlight. Hair like molten steel. Eyes black as mine._ Some are hidden, too, she's sure – buried in the sand, waiting for a stronger wave to disturb their hiding spots, revealing their shapes. She’s been itching to reach into that water all day. When in her life has she not been curious?

_Don’t ask. Curiosity killed the cat, as you well know. And you only met them hours ago._

Well, she met _most_ of them hours ago.

Mordecai still looks weak from the ambush. His hair, gray to her eyes in the darkness, has dislodged itself from his shawl and partially covers his face. She wonders if it’s pained, underneath. Can’t tell if his breathing is laboured, or if sleep is at least a reprieve. The five years that have passed since the night they met look like twenty on him. He _could_ have been disguised to look younger at the time, but the paleness, the cane, the fatigue. They tell a different story, one she can’t even guess at.

_Is there a remedy?_

_No, don’t. If he wanted your help he would have asked. It’s none of your business. How long will you travel with them? A month maybe, two? Don’t try to involve yourself. You’ll be in and out quick, with another tall tale under your arm to show for it, same as always. Anything more than that, and, well..._

_You know how it goes._

Her black eyes shift away.

They land the second shape. She would have pinned Lara for the sprawling type from all her bravado, but she too is on her side, legs drawing up in her sleep. The same instinct for protection as her own, only subconscious, uncalculating. The type of animal that bares its neck and dares the world to strike. There's an innocence peaking through, something wholly different than the partner in crime that she knew in the daylight. _So vulnerable._

Like this, the tall woman looks almost… Sweet.

A frown is forming on Lara’s brow, just the slightest pinch, and it makes her fingers instinctively loosen around the dagger. _Nightmares?_

_Don’t._

She returns her gaze to the dwarf. To an axe lying to the woman's left on the grass, momentarily discarded, but not far from its wielder's armored hand. She forces her right hand to clench again, wooden hilt digging into her breast. 

But they’d let her take the first watch. Whether the decision was conscious or not, they’ve already trusted her. They _are_ trusting her, right now, with their guards down and not an eye on her in the darkness.

_Don’t._

Even when sitting still, Rona looks like that odd mix of childish and motherly. Her eyes never turn to the inhabitants of their shelter, but gaze out, vigilant. There’s a readiness there. Dutiful, but also caring, like she’d protect the three of them with her life and make that choice in the span of a single heartbeat. Less. 

She wants to trust that. 

In the dead of night, she can admit to herself, for just one moment, how _badly_ she wants to trust that.

 _Don’t,_ comes the whisper again, the voice so familiar that it's lost its sound to her, that she feels more than hears it, that it runs through her very veins. But for once, she tells herself that she can’t help it. The feeling claws at her ribs, and she lets it. Leaves it there, in her chest, to knot.

She returns the dagger to its seat in her belt. 

Her right hand moves up to simply lie in front of her face, empty. Defenceless. Naked, despite the dark glove that covers all but her fingers.

She leaves it there, slack. Even with her body closed in around itself, she feels more open than she has in years.

Black eyes close,

and sleep dances with her mind,

  
  
  


to the gentle sound of strings.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clues, clues everywhere~


	2. Tilt of a head, hilt of a dagger – Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place five years prior to Kallista’s introduction in the Roadside campaign, and details the night she first met one Mordecai Estemos. They make their aquaintence in Shanbrad, a fine noble’s brothel in Heimgow. The epilogue, if one would call it that, takes place in Melre at The Barswine.

The night is busy. The lute is on her back.

The strings are too tight.

They pull her limbs like a marionette, and absently she sways to their inaudible tune as her mind races.

The elf catches her off guard. She’s too tense and she knows it, scolds herself for it, but it can’t be helped, not now. So instead, she lets her surprise show when he addresses her, plays it into the conversation that follows. He’s an attendant of sorts, she gathers, and likely around her age even though he looks a little younger – _smooth narrow chin, short black hair, blue eyes, neatly curved brows, somewhat stiff around the shoulders; you’re in a hurry, trying to hide it. Why?_

The young man wears the same impeccable black uniform as most of the other employees, buttoned to the neck, and the gold-and-red details on the jacket are practically gleaming. The low light of the paper lanterns seem to bring out warmer colors, in fact. As she holds up her hands (to politely decline his offer of _entertainment_ ) she notes that it has a similar effect on her skin, and the normally _somewhat_ subtle cherry-blossom hue is warmer, rosier. 

_I’ll stand out. More than usual, that is._

On top of that, the elf is persistant; at this rate continuing to decline would render the social situation uninhabitable, which isn’t an option if she wants to stick around and get anything out of this, so she backtracks, gives him a helpless little smile that says _oh fine, I give in, I guess I’ll try it._ Goes for something sweet, charmingly awkward, playful.

“I guess I, uh, would not turn down a good conversation. Thank you. Um, so. Where should I sit, you got a good corner for me?”

She smiles, gives the laugh a touch of nervousness.

He leads the way.

_And now I’ll be stuck entertaining company for the night, fantastic. Exactly what I needed._

She’s led to the north-east corner where two luxurious couches are placed in an L shape, surrounding a glass table, both facing the room. The elf excuses himself, as expected. The entrance is along the northern wall, she recalls, so she takes a seat on the east, facing west, even though the strips of dark cloth limit her view of it significantly; like this, she sees the clientelle only in silhuettes, which would of course be the intended effect.

_Absoutely wonderful._

Experimentally, she lets a blonde curl fall in front of her face as she looks about, and she notes that it too looks more vibrant in this light, taking on a warmer gold, even showing the subtle pink tint for once. She’d stick out like a lit match out in the open, but now the privacy shields should take the brunt. Small mercies, she supposes. 

Across the room her eyes catch on a movement resembling flames, and her curiosity is peaked.

They land on a somewhat short man, with long hair like heated steel, and he seems to have his eyes on her as he maneuvers gracefully between tables. He wears the same sleek uniform as the other employees, but his jacket is open and a luxurious white blouse hugs his torso underneath, its laces partially undone over his chest to reveal an expanse of pale skin. She quells the reflex to turn her head – he can’t see where her black gaze is directed from this distance – and instead traces his posture from the corner of her eye: dignified, but with a casual confidence, a fluidity, no stiffness. Not visibly at least. A man in his element; customers greet him in passing, and he nods to them, smiles back.

The curve of his lip is both polite and familiar, delicately balanced on the edge of being inviting and approachable while not giving direct invitation to approach. _An escort, then. Popular one, by the looks of it. Which, by the looks of you, might be unsurprising;_ _you know what you’re doing, redhead._

_But you aren’t fishing for any of them tonight, or you’d do more than pass their tables on your way around the place. So why might that be?_

_Why do have your eyes on me?_

She puts a pin in it and scans the room again, making a second attempt at a headcount, but her view is still somewhat limited by the black fabrics and she can’t quite make out the entrance. There’s no movement to or from its direction, at least. She studies the half-hidden sillhuettes at the other tables, but notes nobody of value to her besides in the monetary department. _If he’s here, then he’s hidden. If he isn’t, at least I’m hidden._

The redhead nears in her periphery; she catches glimpses of him between the sheets of black fabric, his hair and his clothing dancing at the edge of her vision like little flames. Then, around smoky fabric, he comes into view.

Slows to a stop. In front of her table.

_Oh._

_Fuck._

“Welcome to Shanbrad. I am Mordecai, your host for tonight.”

The sound is clear, canorous. She lets her head turn up to him as he speaks, and involuntarily, it tilts. He rises from a formal bow _(low enough for respectful, shallow enough for dignified)_ and she takes him in for half a moment, cataloging features – high cheek bones, angular nose, well-kept short beard, matching liner under his dark eyes, _what color?_

His spine straightens just a bit in response, shoulders drawing back subtly, and it shifts his low neckline to expose more pale collarbone and the hints of muscle definition at his breast, less than five feet in front of her eyes.

She pointedly keeps them to his face.

“Oh! Right, yes, good evening,” she hurries on, rising from the edge of the couch with a grin. “I’m Kallista, or Kal if you’d prefer!”

_Already fumbling, great._

Her outstretched hand gets a raised eyebrow, but she barely catches it before it’s gone and he reaches out his own to return the gesture. _Right, already did his greeting-bow thing, duh. Where’s escort etiquette for dummies when you need it?_ He’s taller than her, but only by half a head. The hand is slender, elegant but strong, and warm against her fingers where they’re still chilled from the night air. She still can’t quite determine the color of his eyes in the sultry lighting, but they narrow in amusement, and she thinks she hears the ghost of a chuckle in his reply. 

“Kallista then. Please, have a seat.”

~*~

_This was so not the plan._

She’s sitting closer to the room’s corner now, with the redhead turned to face her from the other side of the east sofa. He walks her through the basics. The dulcet of his voice keeps a friendly tone; familiar, polite, easy. While nodding along she gives him the routine smile, with the often added touch of flirty, playful. An easy quip or two thrown in, when tact allows. At this range he’ll be able to tell where she’s looking by the movement of her eyelids, so she keeps them level with his face whenever she looks over his shoulder at the room. There’s movement by the entrance, though, and she has to turn her head to follow it, passes it as fidgeting.

She catches the glimpse of a yellow waistcoat – _finally._ It shows a bit through the black cloth, too. Seats itself three tables over, and a hand peaks out. Seems to make a request.

_Now, how to get rid of the plus one that’s been dropped in my lap._

She looks back to the redhead, and just over his shoulder she sees an attendant make her way over in response to the wave. Conversation follows, but she can’t make out the low murmurs. 

“And should you at any time feel the desire to _upgrade–_ ”

Her eyes snap back to his, and they’re nearly as black as hers. He holds a white token between two fingers, the size of a coin. 

“–simply give me this, and we will leave.”

She feels her face warm. _Thank hell for the camouflage of pink skin. Literally._

He holds it out to her. There’s a slight curve to the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, but she matches it anyway. Mirroring his gesture, she nimbly swipes the coin with two fingers of her own without nudging his, holds it up playfully between them. Gives it a small rearranging twirl-flip so that she holds it by its edges while inspecting it – _a little coin trick always goes over well._ The polished marble surface is carved like a moonflower. She turns it over with another flick of a finger; on the opposite side a faint gold seeps into the petals from the glittering center, fading out at the edges. 

Her eyes flick to his, giving a slight quirk to her eyebrow. He reads it easily. 

“In the case that one prefers a longer stay,” he explains, the corner of his mouth rising further. “Do you have any questions?”

She spins the token once before tucking it in a hidden pocket at her rib, under her left breast. He raises another amused brow, and she winks at him, makes no move to explain, pops the responding “Nope” with a smirk.

He gives a single confused chuckle before seeming to sober, brush it off, slide back into something amiable and unassuming. The transition is smooth, and if disingenuous, well executed. _Huh._

“Very well.” And then, with a small friendly smile, “Nice trick you've got there. I don't often get to sit at the same table with people who are capable of something like that, where did you learn it?"

“Ah, afraid I’m self-taught in that department, it’s just experience. I suppose you might say that we’re both in the entertainment business,” she says, nodding to the lute.

“I gathered. Working to become the next travelling minstrel in Duvarin?” _Oh, just over my dead, decomposing corpse._ She plays at being mock-offended, gives a little outraged gasp and continues with a grin.

“Only in Duvarin? Never, no, I’d miss the road far too much.” 

He smiles back. “The road which claims oh so many curious wanderers, huh? If there’s one thing to be said about an escort career, it is that I do not get to travel much. Please, tell me, what are some of your favorite places, and why?”

 _Did I overestimate you? Bit on the nose for a conversation starter, but– “_ Sure, I’ll bite. If you ask so nicely.”

And then they’re off. She tells him how she’s travelled Valdross for over half a decade now, performing all the while, passes him a few of her routine anecdotes – tavern this, nobleman housecall that, long swirling ribbons of nothing-information that she can pour out carelessly into small talk, braid, weave into discussion. Twist into a question or two here and there, to pass him. She discovers that he he’s from the west, worked here since before he was twenty (so perhaps half a decade), that he enjoys it, finds it interesting, and that he seems to prefer they discuss her. Ends every verbal paragraph in inquiry, keeps her mouth running smoothly. _Interest or privacy?_

_Well, you’re in luck, my guy’s taking his sweet time. Looks like I’ll have plenty to kill._

_Not that I’m not having a blast, redhead, no offence._

He keeps her busy, and she follows the conversation like gliding into a river, like singing in a harmony of voices, her harmony of voices. Some are dissonant and conflicting, others perfectly in tune with each other, assonant. Some are more resonant than others, and others yet simply louder. Some are quiet, and they’re the ones she rarely gets to use. Rarely lets herself use. 

Tonight, though she’s meiculous in hiding it, she feels out of tune entirely. Her strings are pulled so taught that she might splinter her frets, break off clean or more likely _messy_ at the neck, and leave her head hanging there, by those same strings. 

Not for the first time, far from the first time, she considers cutting them.

As usual, she can’t.

It takes her nearly a full fifteen minutes to notice that he’s mirroring her.

There’s a shift of an elbow, dip of a hip.

Not physically, that she saw and dismissed as basic escort training thirteen minutes ago, but mentally. She’s been keeping up the usual, the over-cheerful travelling bard with a tall tale for every tavern and a chicken for every feather. Plus the flirting, and the quips that she adds every now and again. The redhead’s been matching her, step for step, all the while keeping the spotlight on her. They’ve been dancing.

Seems he might be more reserved than she thought. _Customer oriented, maybe?_ _Something else, though. Can’t put my finger on it._

She dials it down a notch, a small gradual change here and there, switching to something more leaned back and casual. Affecting another air, one of old friends, perhaps? Casually familiar, yet unintrusive.

_It’s only common curtesy, after all._

Another minute or two passes, and something about his posture loosens up, something she hadn’t seen tense.

The shift of a shoulder, curl of a lip...

_He noticed._

_That’s… interesting._

He sends a glance around the room, fast and efficient, subtle, and she can’t help but cock her head in consideration.

_Mordecai, was it?_

~*~

The corner of his mouth lifts, the same quirk as before, but this time it doesn’t stop there and rather ends up in a smirk. It reaches his eyes, and they narrow like when they shook hands, the one time they’ve touched. After seeming to ascertain something from the room – _likely whether his boss is seeing him drop his A game –_ his dark eyes return to hers, full of mirth.

“Entertainment business, you said?”

When she laughs, it’s unexaggerated, genuine. It nearly catches her off guard. The honey voice joins hers, and the taut cord around her neck seems to snap, all its tension released. She breathes nearly effortlessly. 

_You didn’t just notice that I mirrored you. You noticed that I was_ **_acting_ ** _._

 _Nevermind the coin – you might be worth my_ **_time_ ** _, Mordecai._

She nearly forgets herself for a while, a while that lasts long enough for _careless_ , even forgets the flirting somewhere in the middle of it. It’s a different kind of dance, a calmer river, a quieter voice. It’s been months since she just had a quiet, _normal_ conversation, and secretly she sinks into it with more relief than she sank into the plush cream cushions. She hadn’t realised how tired she was, but _that_ at least _,_ she doesn’t show. _Been pushing it lately. Nothing for it though_ . Mordecai sits a comfortable shoulder’s breadth away, and neither of them close the gap as they speak, but for once she also doesn’t feel like shoving a wall in it. He dances, she discovers, knows some music too. Now _that_ she would have loved to take him up on. It gets her a bit more animated, even as the reminder catches in her throat, strings pulling taut, wrapping around her wrist to keep it from reaching for the lute. She tries not to let her remarks show the taste of blood they leave behind, to focus instead on the play he’s started telling her about, and the strings slowly loosen again as he speaks. It sounds like fun. He’s got a good voice.

When the man three tables over stands, she nearly startles.

_Right. Don’t get distracted, Tana, this isn’t what you’re here for._

The man presents the token, gold side down, to his company. The woman who takes both it and his hand – _curly dark hair, a wide-set face with full lips, a black-and-red dress tapered at the waist, matching black heels with a distinctly feminine click-tap against the floor, bingo –_ sends a coy glance at him over her shoulder as she walks towards the back of the room, disappearing from view. The plump man follows. The waiter’s been to their table three times in the last hour, once with a wine bottle; if Laydrin’s in a good mood tonight, this might be quick.

She takes stock of the room again. From the corner table where they sit she has no easy entry point, being too far from the doors, and her view of the back of the room is still somewhat limited from the fancy privacy shields between tables so unless she wants to try to slip between them unnoticed – and there are limits, when one is clad in dark green among pastels and jewels, even for her – she needs to _move_.

_The bar. A nearly full view of the space, easy access. Perfect._

Which means she’ll have to move _Mordecai_ , who sits to her left, situated between her and the room. It’s been great for sneaking glances unnoticed, but here come the drawbacks. If she wants to get out, she’ll have to either crawl right over him or walk all the way around the table and dodge the other couch, neither of which are entirely inconspicuous. Or appropriate. And what would she be getting up for? If she asks for a drink, he’ll simply wave a waiter over like the brunette did for her customer.

_Hey, you already messed up the etiquette once tonight. You can use that, play it up._

Then again she could simply lean in and tell him the truth, or better yet just play it off as her letting him in on the mischief. He seems amiable enough. Clever enough, too. He’s already guessed she was here after a purse or two, though in less direct words, and she’s already insinuated that he was correct. 

But then, indifference is not the same as involvement, and giving him trouble isn’t on her list for tonight.

_Etiquette it is, then. And hey, my foot slipped and now there’s a tiefling-sized gap between Mordecai’s lap and the table, go figure._

_Wow, that came out wrong even in my head. What the actual hell._

She retracts her foot from the table’s leg, passing it off as clumsiness, and faking the blush is a bit too easy. At least he seems entertained. Another ten minutes pass in conversation before their current subject starts to lull, and she sneaks another glance over his shoulder, taking stock. When he ends the next sentence she looks off more visibly and grins, nods at one of the gruffer looking nobles, and starts to tell Mordecai a story about a similar man she met in Valestra last year. “Made the finest ale in Valdross, he’d say, would have bragged about about it all the way to Ceta and back too. No, really, the man was so good at never shutting up that it was almost _impressive_. Oh, and hey, now that we’re on the subject–”

In one move she rises from her seat and angles her lithe body, managing to slink nimbly between the table and his knees without so much as grazing him on the way over – _probably gets enough clingers already –_

“–would you mind recommending me something from the bar? I’ve been getting pretty curious,” she finishes. The smile is more honest than the half-truths of her words. 

She takes a small step back, and she realizes that they’re back where they started, but their places are switched.

A mirrored version of events:

Kallista, standing a few feet from the couch, body turned to face him.

Mordecai, seated at its edge, his eyes on her, his head tilted slightly, in consideration. 

Subconsciously, she shifts a shoulder back.

He rises.

~*~

As they make their way to the bar, talking amiably, more than one pair of eyes are drawn like moths to his flame. It’s nearly unsettling, even though she’s certainly not unused to getting looks herself in one way or another. A woman who just arrived in fine blue silk seems particularly peeved to see him otherwise occupied for the evening, and the glare of disdain thrown at her tail nearly brings a smile to her face. _One of those, huh?_ _Serves you, sweetheart, and yes. I can afford this place. Don’t judge a bull by her horns._

_Or bard, as it were._

Not that that’s what she’s here for, but far be it from her to correct a fine lady of prestige. 

She hasn't thought about it. The thought hasn't crossed her mind. It isn't going to. 

The question of whether it's crossed _his,_ however, has. 

She nearly considers asking the man, but quickly decides against it as he eyes the shelves in consideration. His hand has snuck up to his face, scratching the copper hair just below the edge of his lip once, twice, before stroking his short beard on the way back down to tap at the decorated mahogany. 

_Not like it matters, anyway. Not worth the time._

His fingertips tap the bar’s surface a few more times. After a moment the corner of his mouth rises in an almost sly manner, and a knuckle knocks on the wood’s edge, once, decisive. With a flick of the hand he waves the bartender over.

_And definitely not the headspace._

“Polyantha Auream,” he says and, looking to her, silently raises his brows. She nods. He looks back at the barkeep: “Two.”

_Fancy._

_What’s with the smirk, though?_

The bartender – _tall, bit gangly, narrow shoulders, charcoal skin, swept-back black hair, same sharp uniform as the elf_ – turns his back to them and she returns the gesture. Her tail finds a barstool, and she backs herself onto it with a small hop, lounging back against the mahogany as they wait. _Finally, a good view of the place._ She takes stock of its inhabitants; the night is slowing, it seems, with more customers leaving than arriving. She files off the new faces for later, notes a change of shift, but finds nothing of use there. The lady in blue is still glaring at them over that little purple umbrella. She barely holds back a snort, and Mordecai gives her another amused look, vaguely questioning this time. She returns it with a smirk, parts her lips to speak– 

Two clinks sound out behind them, glass meeting wood, and her stool rotates smoothly, noiselessly.

_Maybe I’ll tell you later._

Mordecai’s recommendation turns out to be a fair rosy liquid, served in a green-stemmed wine glass decorated with metallic leaves, its edge tipped with golden flakes. Edible, assumably. The scent is nearly floral, to go with the theme. She tentatively slides her tongue over the glittering glass edge – _honey –_ before taking a first sip. A bit of it sticks to her upper lip, tinting the flavor, giving it a sweet contrast. The liquid is much lighter than your average red wine, but the taste is no less full, only fresher. It has a hint, too, though she can’t tell if it’s in the liquid or the flakes – _vanilla, perhaps?_

She thinks of asking, but as she returns her eye to Mordecai she finds that his are already on her. He looks oddly… amused. “Pray tell, how does it measure up to Valestra’s finest?”

_Right. About that._

“Well, unfortunately, I wouldn’t know. The man was always carrying this huge flask around, but thing was, he never let anyone try it, said we were _unworthy_ _of its quality_ and all that. Was on his way north, Kinethra or further, so we parted around Poloma and–”

Mordecai swirls his glass elegantly as they converse, only occasionally bringing it up to meet his increasingly amused lips. _What's with that?_

The subject reverts to music, arts, performance. She tells him a story that's less flashy, less obviously entertaining, but more genuinely so. She thinks he'll like it. He seems to. His smile is warmer. Across the room she hears a scoff as Lady Blue _subtly_ excuses herself for a smoke, giving the door a small slam on the way out. Mordecai raises a brow and she can't help but laugh. They share a look. 

Mordecai holds up his glass in a small toast. This time, noticing has taken her nine minutes and an orange-lined wink. 

It matches her. 

Green stem for the clothes, rosy liquid for her skin, honey gold for her hair. If she blushed hard enough she’d be a life-sized replica. It’s a near thing.

She bursts out laughing, and his voice joins in. “I was wondering how long you’d take to notice.”

As it is, she manages to suppress the brunt of the burn, figures it’s barely visible, but she wonders if the light might bring it out. _Who the hell even thinks of that? It’s got to be the most elaborate ‘I compare you to a rose’ of all time, and frankly–_

He holds her eye theatrically as he goes in for another sip, eyes dark as his lips meet honey. The marble burns into her rib.

She looks away. Goes for a pout: “I’m sure you tell all the girls that you’ll be drinking from their skulls by the end of the night.”

He nearly chokes suppressing that snort, the glass clinking against the mahogany bar as he coughs, and she erupts into giggles again, watching him, grinning. After he recovers he speaks his defence, chuckling:

“Well, some opportunities only present themselves once,” he says, giving her a pointed once over with a raised brow. But there’s something else in his eyes, too, a question, something that lingers there between them, between the words and the color that she can’t make out.

She brushes it off, internally shakes herself, and raises her glass with a smirk. “ _Golden_ opportunities, would you say?”

He doesn’t even cover the snort that time. In fact, the accompanying eye-roll may very well leave lasting internal damage in both of them. It’s well worth it, though, but that might be the smile– 

She looks away again, takes a deeper sip, licks a honey flake from her bottom lip and nibbles at it when it persistently sticks. The drink is nearly finished, with few golden flakes remaining on the edge.

All joking aside, it’s actually not a bad choice for her. Maybe she does have expensive taste, on occasion.

She laps up the last drop.

_Click-tap, click-tap–_

She hears the door somewhere to her right. Doesn’t look, instead sets and keeps her eyes on Mordecai as she reaches forward. The glass is in his right hand again, held elegantly by the stem, and she slides her left palm in right above it to cup the bowl from below. The back of her hand feels the barest graze of his thumb, and they linger there for a fraction of a moment before he lets his hand drop down, the withdrawal almost featherlike, somehow. The questions are back in his eyes, more intently, and his head shifts to the side just so– 

His eyes are brown. Warm, deep brown, and when the light hits and shines into them just like this, there’s a hint of something nearly golden in their depths, a single piercing streak. _Like honey._

_Click-tap–_

She moves off the barstool, and the space between them shrink. She’s dropped the smirk, and the flirty routine; her look is simply one of curiosity, consideration. It mirrors his, but this time, it isn’t because it’s intended to.

_Click-tap–_

She brings his glass to her lips where the honey is untouched, and without drinking, she brushes glittering flakes into the corner of her mouth, lets some smear down the side of her lip, tantalizing, messy.

_Click-tap–_

She takes a step back, then another, switching her posture to something loose, leisurely, giggly – in the same way that hitting a false note takes deliberate effort from an experienced singer, so has she developed the subtle skill of sloppiness. She grins, begins to snicker in that contagious way one does when completely carried away.

_Click-tap–_

The heels pass behind, and the heavier boots follow.

She pointedly doesn’t look.

She takes another step back– 

_Click–_ “ _Oh!_ ”

The collision is messy to the untrained eye, but to Mordecai, she bets, it looks something like this; she stumbles backwards into the man – _fine bright-yellow tunic, medium height, curly brown hair, full beard, plump button nose, flushed –_ and half turns to face him, righting herself by his shoulder. He takes in her size, the hand on him, the half-full (precariously sloshing but unspilled) drink in her other, the empty one in front of her seat, and the apologetically grinning honey-coated lips – decides that she’s a lightweight, and a cute one, nothing at all to worry about. By the time he’s (with an even redder face) assured her that she didn’t spill on him, his purse is gone – the whole ordeal lasts no longer than five seconds, and by the sixth, she’s back on course, stepping back toward the exit, and the man is on his way for his coat with the brunette leading him along. 

She raises her glass elegantly – the gesture in contrast with her posture – with a wink to Mordecai and he holds back a snort.

He winks back, and looks perhaps a bit… impressed. _Not that it matters. It’s not like you’ll see him again anyway._

She takes a last look at him, takes in the vivid image of the man on that barstool. Of the eyes on her, nearly black.

_I could stay._

The reasons why she shouldn’t, couldn’t, are too many to count.

She flashes a last smirk, licks the honey from her lips, and turns, tail swaying behind with her hips. Her fingers reach in, feel for the smooth surface– 

Flick of a thumb, flip of a coin, a flash of gold in the air where the low paper lanterns bring out its warmth– 

He catches it.

An attendant takes the glass on her way out, holds her jacket for her. She's ready the moment the lute is on her back. 

The night welcomes her. 

~*~

Mordecai sees her turn, frustration churning in his chest, and watches perplexed as the gold flies over her shoulder, to him– 

He catches it. 

Barely. Blame the wine. 

But when he opens his palm, he notes to his surprise that he does not find marble, but a regular gold coin. The corner of his mouth rises.

_You kept it._

He looks back towards the door, catching one last glimpse of her pink tail before she’s gone. 

_I’ll see you again._

~*~

Later, much later, when the stars are fading and the sun is nearly on the rise, she will lie in her bed with the marble between her two fingers and study the golden side where the wolf-hilted blade made its mark. And there, at the death of the night, with her bruised body between cold sheets and two new pouches under the floorboard and another cut carved into the underside of the bed frame, with exhaustion clawing at her every bone, the thought will cross her mind.

When sleep comes with it, she doesn’t fight.

She does not dream of a pretty face that night, of exposed pale skin and fiery metallic hair.

She dreams of illusive glimpses, between black sheets, of cunning honey eyes.

Something frail wraps around the marble and her hand. Not a string, not nearly, not a ribbon or a thread, not twine. 

A single copper strand.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3  
> Part Two will focus on the rest of Kallista's night, thus taking place between her exit and the 'epilogue' of sorts in her bed. It should be up in not toooooo long. But we shall see, with uni.
> 
> *The drinks Mordecai orders aren’t real, as far as I’m aware. Polyantha is actually just a reference to the polyantha rose, also called the “Lovely Fairy” or simple "Fairy" rose (but I feel like the place would totally call it by the fancier name), which comes in shades of light pink. Auream simply means golden, in latin, so what he orders her is a golden rose. Basically it was the pick-up line of the century, and also a fantastically smooth joke. Flower looks like this btw: https://images.app.goo.gl/6hq7SCkzSwqhSNBD8
> 
> *The moonflower token looks like this, sculpted like this flower face on either side, made of marble and gold-coated on one side: https://images.app.goo.gl/sVCN2gSsW7wYE6Hk9 
> 
> *Moonflower, also known as Tropical White Morning-Glory. Heh. Sorry-not-sorry.
> 
> *The Barswine is what Kallista calls the tavern in which she resides, and the name most refer to it by. In actuality, the bar changes its name every few days due to a pun fewd between the three siblings that own it. The sign says, depending on the day: The Bar, s’Wine! ; The Bar’s Wine ; The Bar Swine. The third is the invention of the sister, and Kallista vastly prefers her over her two brothers for the very reason that she’s a total sass-monster and calls them bar swines when they fail to bartend cleanly and need her to mop up their damn messes.
> 
> *On combat: I will try to always write one action/turn in one paragraph and as such separate it into something coherent from a meta POV, a D&D POV, not just a writing/reading POV. Unfortunately, you won't see it now because the combat in this chapter was moved to Part Two. So look forward to that, I guess? It introduces a new character anyway, better to give Mordecai his own spotlight.


	3. Fragmented thoughts, or poetry for the lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extremely non-chronological scrapbook of thoughts as unstructured poetry. Mostly scribbles from a while back, right after the garden. Contains backstory spoilers, so if ya wanna avoid, go right ahead.
> 
> Also, my usual standards of structure will not apply here, quality is what it is xD
> 
> (TW: bitterness about insufficient parenting.)

_You know, I thought you would be the simple one._

_Your presence, from the moment you opened your mouth,_

_was oddly comforting._

_Familiar._

_Easy._

_A very small part of me does feel betrayed, for being incorrect in that assumption. For making it in the first place._

_I should be smarter than this. I should have learned by now, things are not what they seem, least of all people._

_A larger part is surprised that you would reveal such a thing to a stranger._

_Not that I'm a stranger to your kind._ _The road has more mouths than ears, after all, and I fall in the latter category, as much as I pose for the former. I've heard the word whispered in the wind._

_**C** hangeling._

_Are you like me?_

_Have I seen your face? Your real face? Do you even have one, or is it all the same to you?_

_Is that what I’m becoming?_

_Am I even me anymore?_

_If you have a face, one that’s yours, or was yours, do you remember it? Can you find your way back to that?_

_Or is there just that vast empty nothingness underneath, the one I feel in my chest sometimes, when I can’t tell if I feel at all,_

_if I am at all?_

_If you had a face, one that's only yours, would you show it to me?_

_If I have a face, a heart, one that's mine–_

_Some days, you know,_

_I feel like I can’t remember_

_what feeling feels like;_

_I smile_

_and I wonder if my body has permanently detached itself_

_from everything inside it._

_I’ll tell you a secret that you’ll never hear:_

_I am always in over my head_

_because I am always pulling a mask over it_

_covering something that I’m not sure_

_is even there anymore._

_I am always_

_deliberately_

_acting._

_But then I meet you,_

_and somehow I feel_

_as if you catch me off guard._

_As if the smile is real, and everything else_

_is now something forced._

_A face I wear inside to fool myself with._

_I don’t know how to act, with you. I don’t know what parts I’m covering._

_If the smile is real,_

_then my very thoughts have become untrustworthy, unreliable._

_If they have, could I trust you instead? Could I trust this smile of mine? Is it mine?_

_Or just another face I wear and pass off as my own?_

_Are there days when you aren’t sure what face you’re wearing? Are there times when you forget, and have to remind yourself?_

_Days when you forget to put one on at all? What would you look like on those days, I wonder…_

_When you wear my eyes, do yours feel more at home there?_

_If so, maybe I’ll make you a deal_

_and you can keep them,_

_as long as you keep them on me_

_because I've been curious about what you might see;_

_The string or the hem_

_The rose or the stem_

_The petal or the seed_

_A flower or a weed_

_Strange, what strangers can start in one’s mind._

_~*~_

_**L** _ _ittle one,_

_You don't catch me picking your pocket._

_Because you're too oblivious for that._

_But you catch me picking someone else's._

_And instead of turning me in, you just go up to me,_

_you grab my arm_

_and you smile_

_as if one word from you will be a revelation,_

_a salvation,_

**_enough_** _._

_I play along, return my bounty, and you are still_

_so_

_unsuspecting._

_You talk about saving me,_

_changing my wicked, wicked ways,_

_taking me in._

_I scoff at you again, and I laugh_

_as if you haven't just struck me across the face with the last two decades so hard that I’m reeling,_

_because the very idea that I would need someone_

_like you_

_is ridiculous._

_You buy me a drink, and I don’t let on how it chokes me. We speak unhurried._

_I'm already looking for an out._

_I need to run_

_as far away from you as I could possibly get_

_at the earliest opportunity._

_Circumstance would seem to have it otherwise._

_The company changes. Laydrin, curse her etherial skirts, would seem to have it otherwise._

_You are childish and motherly and innocent_

_despite centuries of life_

_and it's ridiculous._

_You're the one I would hate myself most for_

_trusting_

_I could play you like a fiddle_

_and I would hate myself for that too_

_You seem to care._

_For me._

_You seem honest._

_Kind._

_You seem to be_

_one of those very, very few_

_who are what they seem._

_Who remain what they seem._

_You unravel my chest by the seams,_

_and loosen the strings_

_that have choked me for years,_

_and I never noticed you reaching._

_You would reap what I sow, even knowingly._

_You are ridiculous._

_Completely ridiculous._

_And I am ridiculous for this._

_(I will trust you.)_

_~*~_

_**A** ngel, why the hell did I choose you? _

_It wasn't real, that's lucky at least,_

_because reality is a different beast entirely_

_so if that had been real–_

_No,_

_I'd do it again, wouldn't I?_

_Do I even regret it?_

_I don’t know if it would have made a difference._

_I could justify it in a thousand ways._

_I do._

_The space behind the mask would have been blank,_

_because I don’t know that face,_

_and the illusion could have known only our minds, certainly._

_If not that, then it was simply a calculated decision to gain your trust, because keeping you on my side is more beneficial._

_It would help me more than the off-chance of a random face, anyway._

_But that’s all lies. I had no idea you would help me._

_It wasn’t about you being_

_of use_

_to me._

_It should have been._

_Why isn’t it?_

_What the hell am I now?_

_The broken girl, the animal,_

_the cold, stone-hearted charletan,_

_or whoever I was with_ **_you_** _,_

 _when it was just_ **_us_ ** _and the road,_

_when I felt myself warm for the first time,_

_the only time,_

_when_ **_you_ ** _made that warmth last for years._

_Maybe it's because we met before I'd gone cold again,_

_in_ **_your_ ** _absence._

 _Before I reverted back to everything I was before_ **_you_ ** _found me, before I knew any of that,_

_before I decided to leave_

_all that uselessness_

_to the less ambitious,_

_to those that can afford to drink themselves into a ditch over heartbreak with coin they don’t have._

_Before I decided it's better_

_I take after my mother,_

_and leave behind anything and everything for what I want, leave it to rot and feed my own soil, soil that I’ll leave anyway,_

_home and child included._

_Or maybe it wasn't like that at all._

_Maybe, you were actually just that gullible,_

_to think that we'd be fine,_

_to think that your god_

_or any god_

_would ever give a damn about two tieflings in Melre._

_To believe that ~~wretch~~ could raise me, care for me, let alone himself. _

_I raised me._

_I raised myself further even than you did, I bet. Than either of you ever could._

**_I thrived._ **

_But even then,_

_I was so cold_

_until I met_ **_you_** _._

_Could I admit to myself that I hate that voice?_

_That I miss_ **_yours_** _?_

_That I'm tired of this? That I'm just moulding myself, fooling myself,_

_into thinking that the softness is the act,_

_and the shell is what's inside?_

_**A** ngel_ _, why did I save you, when I shouldn't have?_

_Is that me? A real me?_

_Or is that you?_

_Are you an exception?_

_Are the three of you_

_exceptions?_

_Will you begin,_

_slowly,_

_to become your own categories?_

_It's not the pretty face, I see those often enough,_

_and they've never gotten me in trouble before._

_But maybe a pretty mind_

_is rarer,_

_after all._

_You gave me hope today._

_I haven't_ **_felt_ ** _for a long time,_

_not like this._

_These aren't things I tell people._

_But maybe you aren't people,_

_maybe you're another_ **_you_** _._

_And maybe that's more terrifying than anything._

_Can I be dumb about it, for once?_

_Can I allow myself this innocence?_

_Can I reach for you,_

_like that fresh apple,_

_as if nobody's ever tried to cut off my hand?_

_As if I can trust you,_

_to reach back,_

_to catch me before they do?_

_Why do you–_

_hell, the three of you–_

_make me feel warm?_

  
  


_You know what, I'll try this on,_

_this face that feels real around you,_

_this face I haven't worn_

_since_ **_you_** _._

_Who knows?_

_Maybe it's mine._


	4. A string.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In dreams, the world moves and freezes and burns as it pleases. Waking hours are more and less predictable. Comfort, at least, is consistently fleeting.

The melody envelops her, in the darkness. It twists, twines, furls, curls around her, enveloping her, covering her, _safe._ She wants to sing along, but of course she can’t let on, so she traces the ribbon in her mind, paints it white, then red, then white again, but the color doesn’t go away all the way. There’s a gentleness that she clings to, has always clung to, in that dulcet humming. The fingers shift in her hair, tracing the twin stumps in her hairline, one after the other, before retreating, fleeting as ever.

The bed creaks. She wants to nuzzle into that hand, but it leaves her. It always does.

She opens her eyes to a darkness she can’t see through, and the matress becomes harder, and the thin sheet breaks itself and tears and unravels and decays and dirties and spoils and rots until it’s sticky like mud, is mud, the mud in a dirt-floored alleyway after it’s rained. It reeks of liquors and liquids, most of it from just behind. Her hair is sticky. The side of her face scrapes against gravel as she shifts. She looks out into the side-street from inside their narrow hiding spot, spots a merchant passing, shiny red apple in hand. She can almost taste it, smell it through the bile.

The arm around her is cold as ice.

She thrashes wildly against its stiffness, tries to rise, to crawl out, to run before she turns and sees– 

She turns.

She’s facing their campside, fire’s last embers moving lazily in the breeze, the protective arm around her warm, gentle, so gentle. She cries into his chest, shaking despite the warmth, and he murmurs strings of comforts into the crown of her hair; _It’s just a nightmare, Tana, we’re okay, you’re okay, I have you, you’re safe–_

She wakes.

The pillow is wet. The lute is painful.


	5. New Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in Duvarin during Session 21 of the Roadside Adventures campaign, in which the party has accepted a quest from the Monster Hunter’s Guild and are now investigating a disturbance in a hoarder’s house (on behalf of the deceased owner’s son). Was it worth 300gp (or 380 after some tip-persuasion)? For me, yes. For her, no. Or, well, maybe ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, new characters: Jayn the walking skeleton, who we keep in our bag of holding (because he's harmless and kind, but necromancy is illegal and he'd probably be hunted).  
> Bo, the sassy halfling rogue who's somewhere between a political spy and a crook.  
> Ramus, the traditional old wizard, kinda. (Previously Lara, secretly the changeling Fie.)

Grimy water sloshes around her ankles. The knock-off rock sheds dancing lines of light across the ceiling, occasionally obscured by the foul waves and disturbed junk in various stages of liquification. Piles and  _ pillars  _ of trash and trinkets fill the room, along with broken furniture and numerous things she’d much rather burn than identify.

One would think the stench alone could drive off an aberration.

_ Turns out it creates one. Go figure. _

She pricks her finger on the sharp end of a string at the lute’s head and drags the dissonant chord down the neck, beginning the unsettling tune that carries her spell forward. This one she only ever sings in infernal. The curse courses through the melody of her voice as she locks eyes with the hideous creature – all nine of them, hanging above its body from an unsightly tentacle – and casts bane into its mind in her mother’s tongue. Its eyes gloss over, fixed on her.

There’s barely time to see the blood-red ribbon encircle and fade into its pupil before a crossbow bolt whizzes past her shoulder, hitting the creature right in its big drooling mouth. She ducks under and heads for a pillar, spying Bo in the shadows behind it, and wonders if the water is conductive enough that getting out of it and sending lightning through would be effective. Likely not, at ankle height.  _ Could be worth a go. _ The creature snaps its jaws at Ramus just as he throws something behind it and rows and rows of foul jagged teeth pierce his forearm before he wrenches it away, white hair whipping through the air from the recoil, and bright flames illuminate the room in a blinding roar. It’s almost enough to make Kallista thankful for the moisture in the air –  _ at least the house isn’t on fire again, keep it up girl _ .

But before she can finish that breath of relief one of its huge slimy tentacles – thorned or horned or  _ toothed _ , she really doesn’t want to know – lashes out at her in a whip-like motion, and she ducks out of the way—

Right into a second one that slashes at her throat and narrowly misses but wraps painfully around her waist instead, jamming its spikes— _ teeth, definitely teeth— _ a good inch through her leather armor and then  _ pulling. _

She feels the room lurch, and the nauseating pain in her stomach is followed immediately by a worse one as its big, drooling, disgusting,  _ reeking _ mouth opens wide and clamps down on her torso so fast and hard she hears a couple of painful  _ snap _ s, its dagger-sized teeth burying themselves between her broken ribs, and she cries out and curses in every language she knows but every thrash seems futile in its iron grip, it does nothing but dig its teeth in. She’s overwhelmed with a nostalgic feeling of helplessness and dread, held in its jaws like some nightmarish mockery of her parents’ wedding painting, and it’s only that trace of the past that keeps her mind on the echoes of that dread inspiring tune. The eyed tentacle looks down on her, its eyes still bearing that unhealthy red outline, and she feels a moment of defiant victory.

Her lute.

_ Fuck,  _ her lute.  _ Please—  _

It’s still by the pillar.  _ I dropped it, I fucking dropped it, GODS, how could I fucking—  _ but it’s out of the water, precariously balanced on some small bedside table and seemingly unharmed, the echo from its impact still resonating but well, healthily, if terrifyingly. She catches movement to the left of it.

Mordecai. Her blurred vision flicks to his hands, weaving elegant patterns into the air as he mutters with his eyes locked on the creature, and her mind returns to the no longer dulled half-circle of pain across her torso. She whips around again to push and punch at the creature’s round body, at the base of its teeth,  _ anything _ . Dark, cold tendrils of decay spread through it and she almost gets enough leverage to push herself off it before with a horrible shriek the room lurches again, more powerfully this time, as if it’s just her mind and the room itself just realigned.

The light is gone. The teeth remain. It’s moved, somehow. She doesn’t see anyone.

Her black eyes adjust a split-second before a hooked appendage goes in for the kill, aiming for her throat to finish her, and she jerks in its grasp to throw its aim off – her hip is free now, and she’s awkwardly balancing between her one foot on the ground and the razor-sharp blades searing through her ribs. She throws her free leg up and tries to kick its other ‘arm’ away, misses when the violent movement severs a broken bone, far too close to her lung. The cough is stifled. Blood drips down her chin, and the curses would hurt too much to voice. She closes her eyes, centers her mind, and the world slows.

It’s silent, the scream that rings out, that she  _ finally  _ lets out. It’s silent, but it resonates all the same through the space around her, becoming almost visible in the air as it matches the subtle vibrations of magic, so familiar to her. It’s silent, to everyone else.

To her, it’s the most honest note that she’s sung in years.

She reappears where it took her, nearly collapses against the pillar. Bone-deep relief floods her as the pressure lifts from her side, and she just  _ breathes _ , in and out, breathes and shivers and tries not to faint.

Her eyes focus on the lute at her feet. She hears shouting, back and forth, Bo and Fie, followed by another explosion of flames, and, clutching her rib, she looks up.

The fire shines off his hair like it was meant to be there, painting him like the brightest sunset, sparks of red and gold glittering across his silhouette like a halo. She stumbles forward almost without realizing, reaching for him, and he turns – his amber eyes set aflame with the same warm glow that caresses his skin as he finds her eyes over his shoulder. He turns to her, lips parting in surprise, more worried than she’d expected. More relieved, too. 

_ Beautiful. _

An inhuman screech of pain from the other side of the room breaks the moment and she’s surprised to see him equally startled, like his thoughts had strayed too. The explosion subsides. She doesn’t know why she expected him to be worried or relieved in the first place.

She tries to laugh it off, or smirk it off when that hurts too bad, clutching her rib, starting to babble her usual shtick of minimizing (and now painful) platitudes like “Hey, fancy seeing you here, come here often how you doin—?”

But then there’s a loud splash behind him and a huge, jagged shape overshadows them both, the nine-eyed tentacle dripping staring right at her over his shoulder. Mordecai’s head whips around. With a terrible shrieking roar the aberration lashes out, its toothy tentacles swinging at him and Ramus, its horrible drooling mouth opening far too wide preparing to bite at them and at her and she can’t die here she can’t— 

But then she doesn’t see it anymore, and there are hands over hers, gently covering the wound in her rib, just under her heart, and she follows the obscuring shoulder to his face and sees the first and the last thing she’d expect. There’s a serious, almost emotionless expression to Mordecai as he steps between her and the monster, as he turns his back to it to heal her, shield her.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, dark eyes locked on hers. His cold touch sends shivers across her skin, and she welcomes the sensation, lets the chill run through her body. She needs this. He probably gets that about her – compassion wouldn’t get her through right now, it would feel good but it wouldn’t save her. Now isn’t the time for comfort. She needs  _ this _ ; the cold, calculating stillness that’s kept her alive all these years through thick and thin, the shiver up her spine that reminds her of the cold night air. Her wounds close under their blood-wet fingers. Not all of it’s hers. Kallista tells herself she’s calm.

She fights her lungs and composes herself. Breathes in. Breathes out. Meets his eyes.

Nods.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but the way his gaze is fixed to hers, the way his jaw twitches like he’s locked in place, it’s like he has something to say. She just has time to see something warm break across his features before, suddenly, she sees the creature again over his shoulder. Dread sinks her heart like a stone, and he must see her eyes widen because her eyes flick back to him in time to catch his panic. She tries to yank him away, tries to cry out— **_DON’T_ ** _ — _ but her throat clenches and closes up and her ribs protest and she’s not even sure the word’s audible even though it rings in her ears.

There’s a sickening  _ crack _ as it bites down on his shoulder, crashing straight through his collarbone, and teeth sink into the flesh of his chest and bicep, and for a whole heart-stopping second she thinks it’s mauled straight through his heart because his eyes flutter shut and she can’t she fucking can’t— 

It won’t have him.

She takes the coldest breath of her life and leaps forward. It’s against everything she tells herself and every instinct she  _ should  _ have, but before she knows it she’s throwing everything to the wind and  _ running  _ towards her newest nightmare, reaching out as if to tear him from its grasp because it will not have him, it  _ will not have him. _

The moment her fingers close on his uninjured leather-clad shoulder, they’re gone.

(It’s always strange to teleport, even when it’s not teleportation as such, but it’s stranger still in company. Everything fades, rearranges, except for the other. Like an anchor. It only lasts half a moment, but for that moment, there’s literally nothing else. That sort of thing leaves echoes.)

They reappear behind a thick pillar, stumbling against the trash from the momentum that carried her to him. She goes with it, tries to press him into it to hide him as much as relative comfort allows, anxious of the monster that could at any moment peak its eyed tentacle around the corner. She mentally swats away the thought of how his body feels pressed against hers— _ hard, lean, exhausted, almost fragile, but sweet, leaning in— _ and steadies him with a firm hand on his waist that shakes a little but does the job. She’s careful not to press on his lungs, listening to the soft –  _ too soft _ – breathing she feels coming from the lips at her hairline. Weak fingers are curled around her bicep, just below the shoulder armor where her skin is exposed, almost like they’d caress her if they had the strength and it takes a lot, to not let herself relax into him. It takes a lot.

But she has to hold on to the cold, or they won’t make it through this.

Her hand quivers against his shoulder. She keeps an eye just left of the corner-leg of some antique, in case the creature tries to reach around. Tries to listen too, but her heart is loud, and she has to listen for that breathing, just in case, just— 

There’s movement in the shadows in front of her, shorter than her or the creature, and the gleam of a metallic bolt-head tells her to raise her gaze another inch to the green eye at its other end, lining up the shot between a mess of brown curls. Then, just when he seems to have measured something up, Bo changes his stance and holds Bianca almost casually at his side to simply walk, step after step, toward the wailing sounds of the aberration and the yelps of Ramus as he holds it off.

Three heavy crossbow bolts whoosh through the air—”Piece. Of. SHIT!”—and then she hears it, the dying cut-off scream of the unpitiable  _ thing  _ he assumedly just turned into a pin cushion. There’s a wet-sounding slump and Kallista sees ripples in the water, sees the limp tip of a tentacle drift into sight from around the corner.

It’s over. It’s dead.

_ Thank fuck, Bo. _

She keeps a hand on him as she peaks around the corner, just in case (just to steady him, just because, and his hand tries to follow but slips from its spot under her shoulder) but it’s true. It’s dead. She dares a peak back at Mordecai and finds his eyes already on her, his head leaned back on the wall in exhaustion, the curve of his Adam's apple jutting out sharply, and whatever she would have said is gone. There’s a speck of blood on his shawl that she knows is from her chin when she held him and she doesn’t know what to do with that, so she runs.

She turns without a word, pulls away fast to cover for her reluctance, and— 

_ —The lute oh fuck the lute—  _

—and grabs it, finally,  _ finally,  _ off the ground terrifyingly enough but beside a single small chip at the base it seems perfectly intact, so  _ thank hell for the pseudo-water _ .  _ Shit. Gods, that was close. I don’t know if Laydrin loves or hates us but she fucking owes me. _

Mordecai walks out from behind the pillar. He leans heavily on his cane but doesn’t stumble, doesn’t falter,  _ walks _ . She wants to go back to him but the worst of his wounds are recovering.  _ At least one goddess is on our side. _ He thanks her, for getting him out of there when things went south, and she knows even less what to do with that, so she briskly shoots it back at him with a “Thanks for healing me” and a shrug before zoning out against a pillar.

He’s the one to ask if she’s okay, after a while of silence. She doesn’t know how to answer that one either.

Bo and Ramus deliberate over the corpse for a while. They head back upstairs and she tries to snap to herself, but in all honesty the haze sticks for a while. Even after she thinks it’s gone it surprises her, returns at odd times, and not always in predictable ways.

The sun is well set by the time she lies on Mordecai’s bed, with clean clothes and her boots off and her head hanging off the side to watch him play checkers upside down. Jayn is having a rough time, despite the skelly’s experience practicing against himself, but he seems to be having fun all the same, happy for some action. Mordecai has a certain look in his eye whenever his opponent poses a real challenge; she only catches glimpses of it, these are only friendly games after all, but it’s there. She looks forward to seeing it up close, if he wins now. 

The lantern light reminds her of how fire looked reflected on his skin. There’s a gold gleam across a lock of hair that falls endearingly over his face from the crown of his head when he leans over, and it’s been a minute or two since he brushed it away last. Her hand twitches.

He bends his head back to stretch his neck, and his eyes flick to hers. She’d joke that his Adam's apple could cut the air, but the haze is back, and the air actually feels thick enough to cut so maybe it wouldn’t be a joke after all, and now she can’t say it. She comes back to after Jayn loses, just in time to face Mordecai in a pretty even game, and it’s just as much fun as she thought it would be despite her being new to it – she even comes out on top, and maybe it’s just because he underestimated her, or maybe it’s luck, but she likes the look he gives her every time he realizes what she’s up to. 

It’s probably a full hour or two later when she finally retires, when Bo leaves, and for a split-second she hesitates at the door frame. But Jayn is there, and Bo hasn’t gotten further than down the hall, and she’s not even sure if she’d dare if it was just  _ him _ so she leaves, humming a tune to heal him on the way out instead, leaving on a light note. She smiles all the way to bed, or at least until she has to undress and the searing pain in her side re-emerges, but she’s used to healing herself up. By morning she’ll be all set, ready for another go at de-glorified bounty hunting. So she tells herself.

Today was like a series of blurs, interspersed with frozen moments so hauntingly vivid that she’s afraid to see them every time she blinks. She doesn’t want to close her eyes tonight, not with the risk of feeling that thing’s jaws around her again.

Not with a chance of seeing its huge teeth grazing Mordecai’s heart. Of hearing the sickening snap of his collarbone and feeling his hands ripped from her waist as it pulled him away by his wounds.

She can’t curl up like she usually does tonight. Her injury would turn the precaution into a disadvantage if she could even bear it. So she lays on her good side, trying to calm herself, feeling far too vulnerable. She plays her mother’s lullaby in her head, hoping the strings will wrap around her in their confining comfort, but they don’t come and neither does sleep.

Not until she dares to let herself imagine arms around her – lean, tired, unharmed.

In the morning, she feels ridiculous.


End file.
